


The Angel of the Ballet and The People's Demon

by ravendiana



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Other, Political
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:34:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21679072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravendiana/pseuds/ravendiana
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley don't meet up in 1892
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	The Angel of the Ballet and The People's Demon

The snow had stopped falling in St. Petersberg, which left the air crystal clear and cold as a knife. The sleighs of the wealthy, piled high with furs and with pans of hot coals warming their feet clustered around the entrance to the magnificent hall where a new spectacle had just been performed. Drivers who had spent the hours huddled with their horses now sat chilled on their boxes, waiting to collect their charges and convey them home in warmth and comfort. The luckiest of the drivers lived in rooms in the barns with their teams, money would be spent to keep the expensive animals warm.

As the glittering thong descend the steps their chatter is more about who was or wasn't seen that night, who they were or weren't seen with, then on the enormous skill and art that had gone into their evening's entertainment. While the ballerinas pulled the bloody wool from their shoes, hoping the expensive satin hadn't been stained, costing them a weeks wages for a new pair, ladies in gowns of the stuff criticized their every movement on the stage and the men gave similar opinions on their bodies. Outside the hall's gates there are crowds of people have even less than the performers. It is the Christmas season and they hope for a few coins tossed from the fast moving sleighs that might mean a roof and four walls for a few nights. 

The last sleigh out has a heated box for the driver, glassed in on the sides so he can see. It's occupant is covered in snow white furs, but only rides from the steps to the gates. He descends from his warm box and talks to the people. He gives out coins, yes, a seemingly unending supply of them, far more than should fit in his pockets, but also listens to each person. For many of them, he may know of a place looking for whatever skills they have, run by a decent person. For others he knows a relative or will write a letter. It is tempting to believe he will not do this, for he writes nothing down, yet everyone who talks to him somehow believes he will do just as he has said. Many of the sick and injured feel restored after he has spoken to them and pressed coins into their hands.

The crowds outside the theater are different every night, and the man does not come every night, but they have begun to speak of him. "The angel of the Ballet" he is called by some. Certainly everyone who speaks to him feels they have been blessed. On very cold nights, like this one there is a samovar of rich hot chocolate in the sleigh. His driver leaves the warmed box to pour small cups for the children. Like his pockets, the samovar dispenses more than it ought to hold.

The Angel of the Ballet isn't the only aid the crowd has come to find, however. Every night there are rough men with loud voices and full hands. They bring bags full of bread, pastry, cheese, even meats that the shops and the wealthy have thrown away, but would still beat them for taking. Most think that not all of it was liberated from such a lowly destination, but if these men are thieves they steal from those who can more than afford the loss, and they give away what they cannot eat with open hands.

They give their spoils with open mouths as well. Why should there be so much plenty for some while they starve, the men ask. Why are they taxed for wars in places they will never see, for cultural goods they are barred from? Why do so few hold all the riches of their land, while so many starve? Why are their grand houses with many rooms and huge, while children are dying in the snow? They are many, and those who oppress them are so very few, the men say. Would they not be able to avenge their parents and save their children if they banded together? 

When they hear the words of these men, the people do not feel blessed. They do not feel as if some great and kind force has come down from on high to save them. But they do feel inspired. Slowly, they are considering if they might not be able to save themselves. They are also bloody minded about how they might go about that. The men are many, but one among their number stands out. 

He shouldn't really, his hair is a blaze of red, but so are many people's here, the color is quite common. He is tall and spare, but again, these people tend towards height, and among the starving thinness is hardly remarkable. He wears fur, and of a striking black, but the furs are clearly patchwork affairs, stitched together from stolen scraps of cast off finery. The most visually remarkable thing about him is the ground lenses of smoked glass, a costly item, no one asks how he came by them. That is what makes him stand out. He seems to be always affable, his words reasonable and heartfelt. Yet somehow everyone around him feels a subtle menace, knowing instinctively that this is not a man to cross. Sometimes he's called The People's Demon, and those who say it hope he will always be on their side.

It would inevitable, then that eventually The Angel of the Ballet and The People's Demon would cross paths outside the gates. And yet they never did. They heard the rumors of each other, with oddly wistful faces. There might be a movement of white or black in the crowd and they would turn, but never see the one their eyes sought. It wasn't time to find each other again, not yet, not for another 50 years. 

Eventually they will, in a church full of Nazis, in it's bombed out remains. They will go together, back to a London bookshop, and talk about the years they had been apart. They will think they were right all along, know the other was nearby, but unable to find him. But they won't say that, not then, not yet. The angel will say how lovely the ballet was though, how sad it is that it never quite caught on. The demon will nod, and in less than a decade The Nutcracker will have risen from obscurity to become the most performed ballet in the world.


End file.
